


A Knight and All of His Friends

by Cultivation



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Character Study, Dark Bruce Wayne, Dubious Morality, Empath, Gay Bruce Wayne, Halloween, Heavy Angst, Hurt Bruce Wayne, Identity Reveal, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jack-o'-lanterns, M/M, Mental Instability, Mentioned Gotham City Sirens, Minor Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel, Moral Ambiguity, Morally Ambiguous Character, Murder, No Batfamily (DCU), No Smut, Past Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel, Past Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne, Protective Bruce Wayne, Self-Indulgent, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27278989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cultivation/pseuds/Cultivation
Summary: Bruce knows all too well that their time is up. He has known their expiration date for years. This world— their world— will explode soon, taking everyone and everything with it.He could escape and leave Joker here to die. He could stay and die trying to hopelessly find a solution to the ending. He could take Joker with him to another parallel world. Bruce doesn’t do any of those things.Neither of them deserves a happy ending and their Earth— their Earth doesn’t deserve it either.But, they can have one last night.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 7
Kudos: 41





	A Knight and All of His Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween to those who celebrate! Special thanks to my beta, [skittykitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skittykitty)!

> "Five years from now, in this universe— _your_ universe— a hypernova will occur on Halloween. It will… destroy the Earth." He was grizzly and roughly-edged yet unbound by the same constraints as Bruce. He was a different version of himself. Freer, if he could judge from a simple observation. His suit was more dark shades of black and gray, only a twinge of yellow outlining the bat on his chest. His white eyes pried Bruce for some kind of reaction. The deduction for this other Bruce seemed to be unsatisfactory. He narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms; the action proved unintimidating. "I’m warning you," he said gruffly. "You can do whatever you want with it, but you cannot save your own world. Trust me, I’ve done the calculations—"
> 
> "I _know_ ," Bruce snapped. Deep-seated anger boiled to the surface as he finally relented, "I don’t care." When those words tumbled from his mouth, the cave grew silent. The other Bruce appeared unresponsive as he pondered the meaning behind his outburst. A loss of control like that should be considered embarrassing. Bruce struggled to find words for what he felt, but he knew it wasn't _embarrassed_. It was something entirely else. The quiet lasted for an eternity. Bruce took the time to rebuild his crumbling mental walls. It didn’t do much good when he was interrupted without warning.
> 
> "You should care," the other urged. He reached out his hand to touch Bruce’s shoulder. "There isn’t that much different between—"
> 
> " _No_ ," Bruce spat. "We’re _drastically_ different." He flinched away from the touch of the other Batman. He almost looked offended by the action. He could not give him an explanation; surely he would have nothing positive to contribute towards the matter. He couldn’t solve the way Bruce shivered when he heard that accursed laugh. He couldn’t fix the way Bruce’s lungs stopped pumping air when Joker threw himself into mortal danger. He couldn’t stabilize Bruce’s erratic pulse at the very thought of the clown being close to him. No one could help him. He learned that long ago. 
> 
> "How?" the other asked. It was a genuine question; there was no ill intent behind it. He just wanted to understand... and that's was precisely the problem: understanding. Bitterly, Bruce swallowed his chuckles. 
> 
> _Perhaps, we’re more alike than I thought._
> 
> "I’m in love."

* * *

Joker is nodding, a shadowy expression written in the way his shoulders tense and his fingers stop dancing against the metal table. His gaze flickers between his shiny, blurry reflection and his own still hands. Bruce can tell he is holding his body back from shuddering. Dark irises linger so long away from him that he begins to wonder if he even should have told him at all. Bruce pointedly made efforts to _not_ elaborate on their circumstances, too. If he did, then maybe Joker could convince him to leave this Earth for another. Purposefully, Bruce dealt the cards hopeless and inescapable. It is selfishly _cruel_ , but no one will say Joker— mass-murdering clown— should be dealt with anything else. Overgrown green hair falls in front of his face and darkens with shadow. His arms remain as still as ever, not a single movement or muscle contraction that Bruce can see. He is tempted to leave Joker like this. Many who watch him at Arkham would say this is his ultimate punishment: the loss of control. Unfortunately, Bruce knows him better than that. 

"Then… there’s nothing left to lose, huh?" Joker mutters. It almost goes unheard. Bruce doesn’t move, unsure of how to answer. He isn’t confused by the question; he already has an answer for it. Bruce just can’t will himself to say it out loud. 

_I guess not._

Joker doesn’t need to hear him say it out loud. He knows, better than anyone Bruce has encountered in all of his years, what he is thinking. 

"You can break me out. There won’t be any time for consequences. You can walk out there with me and there won’t be anyone or anything that could stop us." His bony fingers remain still against the table. Bruce's gaze traces the white skin absently, swallowing harshly beneath the subtly of his cowl. 

"Is that what you want?" he asks softly. For the first time since he gave him the news, Joker’s eyes meet Bruce’s. The emotion within them is painful to even consider. No one else would catch it; he hates himself for ever catching it at all. Yet, he cannot manage to cower from his stare. Bruce never truly has been able to control Joker’s influence over him. Perhaps, this is the world’s karma. After all—

_This is what we deserve._

Joker’s breath hitches and for a heart-wrenching moment, Bruce wonders if he’ll never breathe again. He has never had color in his face since the Ace Chemicals accident, but he still manages to look like whatever was there before has been drained. He is frustrated and he is right to be. Bruce has known all along; he has known for years. He could still save them— he _can_ still save them.

"I just—" Joker stops. Words elude him and the silence is unbearable. He has never been one to remain so quiet. Before he told him, he was bouncing off the walls with questions and taunts. Now, Joker seems to have shriveled up. "I just want one day. One good day. That's it." The irony in his choice of words doesn’t negate Bruce. All of these years, he’s rattled on about his "One Bad Day". The comparison is strange, utterly unreadable. 

_What am I supposed to say?_

"We don’t have the time to dance anymore," he continues. "I know that. But maybe— just _maybe_ — we could step under the moon." Joker isn’t speaking directly anymore. He is speaking in a code they had formed together long ago. It's an obvious code, seemingly unnecessary, and founded by Bruce himself. At the time, he convinced himself it was useful to not alert Arkham staff. Now he knows what it really was— what it _is_ : denial.

_We don’t have time to doddle anymore. I know that. But maybe— just maybe— we could meet under the spotlight._

"I’ll meet your step," mutters Bruce. The chair’s legs screech beneath him as he moves backward and rises to his feet. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel unsteady. Joker’s eyes follow him as he leaves the cell. Desperately, he wants to understand why he ever chose to understand this man—

_No, this monster._

He chastises himself silently whilst driving into the inner-city. 

_I have betrayed Gotham. I have betrayed my parents. I have betrayed everyone. I'm a monster too, just the same as him._

The drive is cut short by a mugging he prevents. He beats the two men until their teeth are spewed haphazardly across the cement. He allows them their lives tonight; it’s a small mercy in the grand scheme of things. The woman watches as Bruce returns to his vehicle. Her expression falters when the thugs are let free. She seems to realize that something is amiss. For a few brief moments, Bruce considers telling her to spend her last few hours the best way she can; he doesn’t. He simply doesn’t have it in him to do so. The night air is brisk and unforgiving, whipping at his chin. The sky is a blank void of darkness. There are no stars or planets visible from here. The woman keeps staring. Bruce scours above for anything in sight, looking past the blanket of black, because there should be _something_ there.

_There should be a sign of what’s to come. Where is it?_

* * *

The bright light produced from the Bat-signal is blazing, the heat warming his face beneath and below the cowl. The wind whips and snaps his cape to the same rhythm. Bruce waits for Joker to show himself from behind the spotlight. Despite the obvious risk, they’ve met here before… in _similar_ circumstances. The last time is one he wishes he could erase from his memory. It floods his brain with obscenely sincere images. Those are worse than the moments in which Joker’s face is pushed against the alleyway wall, biting his lip and barely suppressing illicit noises. Memories like that don’t linger, because they are impersonal. They don’t make Bruce feel as if his heart is beating in his throat. If anything, they make him feel uncomfortable in his own skin (and he has felt that way for his entire life). He isn’t as theatrical when he steps out from behind the spotlight. Anticlimactic would be the word Bruce chooses to describe it. His jumpsuit is zipped down, sleeves tied at his waist, and sags ever so slightly as he walks. Joker’s footsteps thunder in his ears. He is cautious with his movements, taking his time. 

Rather suddenly, it occurs to him that Joker has never really taken anything slow. He rushes headfirst into everything he does. He talks fast, walks fast, and acts fast. The closer he comes to Bruce, the more that this realization feels significant. The bags under his eyes are defined deeper, his hair is tightly tied back, his skin is unhealthy— even for his standards— and his eyes are two small abysses. The world suddenly feels minuscule and unimportant. (Bruce knows this feeling. It isn’t the first time he has felt it in Joker’s presence. He commands attention, no matter the occasion. But somehow, this feels entirely different than that. It feels less like "look at me, aren’t I a star" and closer to "help me" than Bruce feels comfortable with.) He can feel his pulse speed up and his head grow fuzzy with indescribable thoughts. The world stops spinning on its axis and the breath from his lungs is ripped viciously.

"Hi, Bats," Joker greets. The tone of his voice is unsettlingly casual; this is how Bruce knows he is hiding something. 

"Joker." The sound of the title on his tongue is strange. He feels like there should be a more intimate name for him at this moment. Morals don’t allow for such pleasantries though. Instead, it opts for a title with many variants: the Clown Prince of Crime, the Ace of Knaves, the Jester of Genocide. These all inspire the emotion that Bruce should feel when he looks at him; he should be afraid. 

He isn’t.

"How much time do we have, Batman?" His cape snaps in the crisp wind, uncertainty passing between them. Bruce knows it couldn’t have been longer than an hour since he left Arkham.

"We have five hours left." Bruce doesn’t bother checking the time to ensure it. It’s better to not be too precise about these things around him. Joker will surely have a fit in his current state if Bruce were to be too analytical. Joker stops, foot between them. The emptiness in his eyes is stark. Where there used to be levity and drive, there is nothing. A humorless settles over them as Joker looks up above. 

"Five hours…" Joker repeats. He seems dissatisfied with the sound of it on his tongue.

_Does he think it is not enough time?_

"I think it might snow, Bats," he mutters. A mirthless chuckle arises from him; he keeps his head back to stare at the sky. Then, in a rapid course correction, Joker's mood seems to elevate; the darkness in his eyes grows just a bit brighter and the humor becomes a little funnier. "On Halloween no less!" Joker quietly hums a tune Bruce doesn’t recognize. Rather suddenly, he lowers his head and steadily matches the intense gaze Bruce has on him. All of the city’s rumblings silence in their locked gaze. The world is still and quiet. The only sounds heard between them are the exhale of breath, the rise and fall of their chests, and the rhythmic beat of their hearts in tandem. Joker doesn’t hesitate to voice through it. "Do you want to get married?"

At first, Bruce smiles. Then, he reflects. Finally, he agrees.

* * *

"Ahh… what _fun_." All around them, the looting has begun. Frantic cries erupt and sirens blare as windows are smashed in. The news has finally caught on to the inevitable. Riots flood the streets with chanting people. It’s too easy to sneak through the crowds unnoticed. It’s too easy to pretend he never saw this coming. Bruce stands alongside Joker in a jewelry store. It hasn’t been ransacked but rather aggressively destroyed. Fragments of glass are spread across the rough gray carpet. A stranger huddles and rocks themselves in a corner away from them; they mutter something Bruce can’t deduce from the distance. Joker doesn’t take note of his surroundings whatsoever, stepping over glass and earrings and necklaces indiscriminately. He hums the same tune as before and Bruce is tempted to ask what it is. It’s nothing he has ever heard before today. Ultimately, he holds his tongue and rakes over the dozens of rings on the floor. Some are plain gold bands while others are meticulously cut diamonds. Joker’s eyes scan them with a scowl. None of them speak to him. It is far from a surprising reaction to Bruce. He expects just as much. "Don’t be so quiet, Bats. Pitch in a little, why don’t you? And don’t you dare pick black."

Bruce kneels down and moves pieces of glass out of the way. Five rings reveal themselves among the reflective pieces. Two are much too small for his fingers, intended for dainty female hands. The other three are intended for men: gold, silver, and black rings. Instinctively, his fingers reach forward and pick up the silver. It reminds him of his father’s wedding ring. He always wore it, no matter the occasion. It was a sign for everyone to see. It was a display of an ever-standing commitment. In the lapse, Joker squeals at the discovery of a jade ring that fits perfectly to his slender finger.

_Commitment_ , Bruce thinks, _is a dangerous game._

* * *

> "Come on, Bruce!" she screamed. Her voice was hoarse from crying. Mascara ran down her face. "Just tell me for once in your damn life what you’re thinking!" For a while, Bruce kept his silence. There was an old grove, long abandoned by the gardeners as bad soil. The tree withered away, year after year. Yet, every time they offered, Bruce refused to cut it down. Just outside the window, he kept his gaze attached to it. It wouldn’t be long until that tree would be wiped away with everything else; he figured he might as well let it live its last breaths and go with the rest of the world. Somehow, staring at it made his thoughts clearer and more concise. It was as if he were staring at death itself. He steadies his shaky words into coherent truths. 
> 
> "Selina," Bruce spoke. He imagined his own face looked cold and distant. It wasn’t that he meant it to appear that way. He just couldn’t control the impassiveness anymore. "I wish I could love you," he started. Instantly, her contorted features softened. "I wish I could marry you and be happy. I wish— I wish I could tell you everything. But, I’m afraid… I always have been afraid. It hurts—"
> 
> _It hurts to think about how I pretend to be the man you love. It hurts to think that I was once that man. It hurts to think I’ve abandoned it all for this—_
> 
> "It hurts to lie to you," Bruce muttered. The room was silent except for Selina’s shattering breath. In a way, that could be interpreted as the truth; Bruce was too cowardly to speak it clear enough. So, he opted for another course of action. "We don’t have much longer—"
> 
> "Why?" Selina asked. "What do you mean?" Bruce huffed out a sigh and talked before he knew what he was saying.
> 
> "The world is ending in a year." There was a distinct change in her demeanor and posture. The concern on her face scrunched up in bitterly-kept fury. She crossed her arms across her chest, hugging her body. 
> 
> "How do you know that? How could you possibly know that?" Her eyes caught the dwindling light coming from the window. With the light, they appeared glassy. Selina could sob again. Bruce didn’t enjoy seeing or making her cry; he never liked making anyone cry.
> 
> "Another Batman visited me from an alternate dimension. He warned me about it." The fury hidden reared its ugly head. 
> 
> "How long have you known?"
> 
> _Lie._
> 
> "Doesn’t matter—"
> 
> "Yes, it does, Bruce."
> 
> _Lie!_
> 
> "There’s nothing we could do to stop it—"
> 
> "Have you even tried?"
> 
> _Lie, goddamnit! Lie to her!_
> 
> "No… I didn’t try, Selina."
> 
> _Christ._
> 
> "Are you— are you joking right now?"
> 
> Somewhere in the scuffle that followed Selina threw the ring, it clattered to the floor, and Bruce never picked it up.

* * *

"Do you want to hear a joke?" Bruce asks. Joker emerges with a fluffy white dress draped against his chest. An inquisitive eyebrow lifts on his face. 

"Bats, this is weird… even for you." A smile tugs across Bruce’s lips. Joker grows still. Admiration, what Bruce might call it, spreads across his sharp features. Awe is another descriptor he could attribute to it. Either way fits for Bruce. Joker drops and sits atop a pile of white dresses. His hands hold up his chin and his elbows rest against his bony knees. "Do go on." At that moment, Bruce wants to hold back still— to stop whatever is about to tumble from his lips unprompted. He doesn’t; it’s the end of the world.

_Oh, what the hell—_

"I was engaged once," he begins calmly. Joker’s eyes don’t seem to blink as he stares at him. A moment of silence passes between them. The sound of distant coat hangers screeching against racks can be heard. Then, the sound of familiar laughter accompanies it. It’s hushed, but Bruce could identify it from anywhere: Harley Quinn. Joker seems completely oblivious to it, hyper-focused on Bruce. His mind screams at him to shut his mouth. He doesn’t listen to it; his intuition isn’t going to matter when the galaxy is erased. "You know the cat burglar." Joker eyebrows lift and his smile returns in sudden levity (as if a heavy burden has been taken off his back). Additionally, his relief is evident in the way his shoulders relax and his posture slackens ever so slightly.

"Oh, Miss Kyle!" Joker exclaims. His voice is just loud enough to be noticeable— for echoes to travel. "How did she treat you then?" Briefly, Bruce entertains the idea of Selina listening in on their conversation. 

"She is a great person… I’m just—" Bruce struggles with his words. Joker doesn’t mind or mock him for it. He simply studies his face (or rather, what he can see of Bruce’s face). "I’m not a great person." At that, Joker rolls his eyes.

"Welcome to the club, Bats. Being a ‘great person’ doesn’t really gel well with our schedules. Perhaps another time…" The laughter and whispering Bruce recognized before suddenly grows quiet. Finally, Joker seems to notice the presence of others here. "Noisy harlots," he mutters. Almost on cue, a trio of women reveals themselves from behind a long line of various cream dresses. Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, and (because Bruce truly can’t be tortured enough) Selina Kyle strut towards them. Ivy and Selina appear in their normal attire, despite a few changes in the preservation of their secret identities. 

_Of course, we’d run into the Sirens. Could this night get any worse?_

"Hey, Bats!" Harley greets. Her hair is in two dual-colored buns on either side of her head, stray strands falling lazily and framing her face. A tattered red flannel and navy jean shorts hug her body, showing her chalky skin. (It never fails to jar Bruce every time he sees her.) Her eyes are definitively what differentiates her from Joker the most; they are crystal blue. Those same eyes harden at the sight of Joker. "Hello, Puddin’…" she spits. Joker doesn’t smile or flinch. Bruce would say, if anything, he looks mildly annoyed. 

"I’m sorry, dear, but we just don’t have the time to catch up!" Joker attempts to hastily pull a random dress off the coat hanger. With a flourish of her hand, Ivy sends a thick vine from underneath the flooring. The vine snarls around Joker’s foot and coils around his lanky frame like a snake to prey. He scoffs, chuckling heartily at the situation. Rather immediately, Bruce feels stuck. 

_I don’t have the time for this. None of us do._

"Let him go, Pamela," Bruce speaks gruffly. Her eyes snap to him in a quiet fury.

"What makes you think I won’t let my babies eat you _both_ alive?" Ivy threatens. Bruce feels less than afraid of her. Right about now, he feels quite like Joker: mildly annoyed. Selina steps forward and places an arm on Ivy’s shoulder. At the touch, she immediately recoils and looks to her. Silent and stoic, Selina nods at her and removes the hand. "Fine," she mutters. "I won’t kill the Bat… it’s not as if he put us all in an insane asylum to _rot_."

"Bruce," Selina says softly. "What are you doing here?" Her voice carries the same hollowness it has since the day he told her the world was going to end. Her goggles rest on her forehead and her face lacks any strong emotions. The only thing Bruce can analyze from her is her worry. Thin dark brows are arched upward in subtle distraught. He isn’t sure what to do with her reaction or Quinn and Ivy watching their interaction so intently. Again, his mind wants to will up words that’ll protect everyone from the truth. But dishonesty has never gotten him anywhere before with Selina. 

_Here goes nothing._

"I’m helping him pick out dresses," Bruce answers directly. It sounds so comical coming from him yet no one laughs. The room is deathly silent in disbelief. Joker is the one (as customary) to break the silence.

"Good one, Bats." Ivy flares with anger, tightening the coiled vines around him.

"Quiet, clown!"

"What? You’re not being serious right now, are you?" Selina pleads. "I don’t— I don’t understand this, Bruce. What are you doing with the Joker? This doesn’t make any sense—" Selina holds Bruce’s gaze, a doe in the headlights. Her mind isn’t processing anything.

"Hey, Red…" Harley whispers. A few more strands pop out from her buns as she leans closer to Ivy. "Do ya think whatcha said that one time was true? Do ya think Mistah' J and him have been—" Steeling himself, Bruce stands his ground and doesn’t let go of Selina’s gaze for a moment.

"Let him go, Pamela."

"Answer me, damn it!" Selina yells. As the vines continue to coil tighter around his body, Joker hums with amusement.

"Oh, this is getting heated! I love a good reality showdown!" Harley drapes her arms around Ivy’s shoulders and leans in even closer.

"Red, I don’t know about this. I don’t wanna spend our last moments bein’ chased by Bats." Selina begins to well up with tears.

"What the hell are you doing here with this clown, Bruce?" In a final act of devastation, Bruce reaches up to his cowl and pulls it against his shoulders. His face revealed, Harley practically squeals. (Everyone else in the room, with the exception of Joker, become statues.)

"No way! Bruce-fuckin’-Wayne!?" She jumps away from Ivy and walks over to him. Ivy, hesitant, holds her back. "Oh, come on! I just wanna get a good look at ‘im, Red!"

"Harley, we don’t have the time for it." The tears slide down Selina’s face even in the state of shock.

"I don’t believe it," she mutters. "So that’s what you meant, huh? That’s what you’ve been lying about this whole time, isn’t it?"

"Oh, honey," Joker interrupts. "He’s lied about _way_ worse things than that." Selina doesn’t advert her gaze from Bruce.

"Shut your mouth or I’ll scratch your face into shreds." Joker puffs out an exaggerated sigh, looking off to the side.

"Everyone’s a critic." Selina takes closer to Bruce, pointing her finger and pressing the tip of her claw against his chest.

"Harley and Ivy don’t have to lie. They're _both_ murderers. Why do you, Bruce? Why do you lie?"

_Easy question._

"Because I have— I had a responsibility," he starts. "I had an image and a reputation. I created a man I could never be and needed to do as best as I could to live up to that impossibility. I made a mistake in thinking I could do that. I made a mistake in thinking I wasn’t just as crazy as him or anyone at Arkham. I made a mistake in thinking I could get away from it— from _this_. If our universe wants to decimate everything because of it, it should. It deserves to wipe us out. It deserves to wipe everything off the _goddamn_ planet. It deserves to wipe me—" He stops himself before he can finish. The heat against his cheeks and the hammering in his chest are the first sensations he notices. He can’t be bothered to analyze Selina’s face now. Joker is the only one in the room without a locked jaw.

"Slow down there, Bruce… you might catch a fever." Selina backs away unsurely. She stumbles slightly with her footing, barely catching herself from falling. Slowly but surely, the vines uncurl around Joker, dropping him headfirst onto the ground. "Ouch! Could you have given me a warning before you let me crack my neck?" Ivy grimaces and turns to Selina’s aide. Rubbing his head, Joker approaches Bruce without mention. 

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Bruce asks absentmindedly. Joker nods, picking up a random dress from the rack of plastic covered dresses. For a few brief moments, Bruce can pretend Selina isn’t there. At that moment, he asks, "Are you sure white is your color?" Joker scoffs and throws the dress to Bruce’s chest to carry. Yet, for a moment,— just a _moment_ — Joker smiles; he is afraid of how beautiful he looks. 

"Come on, Selina. Let’s go," says Ivy. The Sirens back away until they’re more than a few feet away. Ivy holds up Selina by the arm. On the way out, Harley snatches a few bagged dresses under her arms. Naturally, she is the first one to talk.

"Holy shit, Red. Ya were _right_. The whole fuckin' time!" Ivy mutters something to Selina as Harley continues to talk to herself. "I wonder… do ya think they’ve done it?" Selina remains mute, expressionless. Exhausted, Ivy pulls at her arm, urging her onward.

"Harls, just _look_ at them," sputters Ivy. Harley obliges and turns around for one last glance. What she sees invokes something she thought buried: her psychology degree. They stand together, staring at each other without the filter she usually sees them in. The cowl doesn’t hide the sorrow and brokenness. Bruce fuckin' Wayne watches Joker, entirely caught up with his sporadic movements and flamboyant mannerisms. It’s a look she saw Ivy sport during her days as Harley’s patient. She doesn’t need to look any longer. She knows enough.

"Yahtzee."

* * *

"This, eh?" Joker asks. The Gotham wind wipes harder now as the dawn light breaks across the bay. The salty air is sharp to the sinuses. Bruce and Joker have escaped it all by entering a nearby run-down department store. Above them, fluorescent lights flicker and cast a dim yellow color on everything inside. Beyond the dressing room curtain, Joker hums curiously. "Why’d you call us that, Bats?" Bruce shifts uncomfortably, cowl replaced against his face. The mask feels strangely off-putting against his skin. It is as if his body is telling him not to wear it anymore.

_It is purposeless._

"I’m a coward." The bluntness of his voice carries farther than he would have liked it to. Silently, Bruce curses himself for it.

"You’re afraid, yes, but you’ve always been afraid. It doesn’t make you a coward." He pulls back the curtain and reveals himself to Bruce. Joker stands taller than usual (probably due to the heels hidden beneath the fluffy layers of satin and tulle). His dress is a true ballgown, fitting against his torso tightly and shifting awkwardly at his chest. The color of the dress is unable to blend in with his skin, a champagne color. Lacy sleeves reach to the middle of his forearms, floral patterns woven into the cotton thread. Joker’s makeup has been redone ever so subtly. His eyelids are dusted with shimmery periwinkle and his lips are shaded with a surprisingly quiet nude. Bruce is powerless to stop himself from staring. "You’ve never been a coward, Bats." Still gawking, it takes a few seconds before he can comprehend his words. He remains silent, unsure of how to respond to something he unequivocally disagrees with. Yet, Joker’s tone is so certain with its conviction. It’s _his_ truth, not Bruce’s, and it’s something he’ll have to forgive. Joker smiles mischievously, posing. "You know, my mother always told me it’s rude to stare."

"Did she?" Bruce challenges. Joker steps forward, entranced with his lips. Involuntarily, Bruce places a cautious hand around his arm. His chalky skin is smooth to the touch. Hair doesn’t grow anymore, leaving the surface of his forearms bare. The touch is jarringly unfamiliar for Bruce and he is quick to flinch away from it; before he can, Joker pins Bruce’s hand with his own. Breathless, he makes no move to remove his hand or pull away from Joker’s arm. 

"See? Just afraid. Not a coward." There is a hush. Then, Bruce is dragged into the dressing room.

* * *

> Gordon was on vacation with his wife and children. Every other villain locked up in Arkham made it too easy. Two days after the other Batman gave him the grave news, Bruce awaited Joker atop the Gotham Police Department. His cape whipped in the darkness, traitorous stars lining the sky above. Quiet and trembling beneath the suit, he parted his lips and sucked in a harsh breath. There was a distinct smell of sweetness lingering in the air. Pumpkins lined the doors around the station, some carved with jagged faces and others left blank. One had a bat carved into the pumpkin, illuminated with a flickering orange-twinged light. A faint smile stretched against his lips. Then, in an instant, he was filled with inexplicable sadness. As if the light in the world itself was blown out, his body shuddered and his smile was replaced with a frown. Bruce’s face grew hot and tight, throat stuck between words he couldn’t come up with. The cowl burned against his skin. His sight blurry with tears, he expelled vulnerable noises to the undisturbed street below. Bruce threw caution to the wind and drug the cowl over his head. The fabric hung against his shoulders and back. Dark hair tapered at his neck, overgrown and slick with sweat. The brisk air touched his dampened face. Mirthless, he hummed with amusement. 
> 
> "Oh," he breathed. "If only you knew." The picture of a child emptying the seeds and guts, drawing on the surface in marker, sticking the knife inside the pumpkin, and carving out the symbol made him nauseous. 
> 
> "Knew what?" Joker's voice gave him distinct clarity in the overwhelming sea of emotions. Bruce tilted his head behind him; he couldn’t bear to look him in the eye just yet. The tears on his face and his identity flaunted weren’t supposed to be a part of this meeting. A sinister chuckle racked his body. 
> 
> "Oh, that’s just _fucking_ hilarious." He turned to Joker, bitter amusement lucid. "Laugh, clown. That’s what you do, isn’t it?" He merely rolled his eyes at Bruce.
> 
> "Don’t avoid the question, Bruce." Their eyes met briefly and a cold feeling rose to the surface. His mirthlessness soured, leaving only the bitterness in its wake; he looked away. His gloved finger pointed towards the jack-o-lantern sitting upon the step below.
> 
> "They look up to me. They think they can trust me, but I fail them every single day. I’m not the man they need." The tear residue on his face cooled against his skin. Bruce swallowed harshly, trying to move past the sob wanting to escape. 
> 
> _I have failed Mom and Dad. I've failed Gotham._
> 
> "What kind of man do they need, then?" asked Joker softly. Bruce’s fists clenched into tight balls. His voice carried with the whipping wind in an entrancing dance. Wherever his intent was with this, Bruce could not stop but watch his graceful sway towards it. 
> 
> "Someone who won’t sleep with the enemy," Bruce blurted. He did not dare to meet Joker’s piercing gaze. Fury clung to his every word. "Someone who won’t let the enemy kill hundreds." Then, more soberly, "Someone they can trust." Joker was silent for a few moments, seemingly assessing Bruce’s answer. Why he found them interesting, he couldn’t guess. The truth was never very intriguing to Joker before.
> 
> _Why care now?_
> 
> "What is the worst outcome of a lie when the lie protects them more than you ever could?" Bruce’s neck snapped to the sheer _audacity_ in everything he spoke.
> 
> "Lies are still—"
> 
> " _No_ ," Joker interrupted, tutting. “Lies protect us. Lies protect them. Lies protect you and lies protect me. What would happen if you told them Bruce… what you and I are to each other?" His dark brows furrowed under the penetrative stare.
> 
> "You know what would happen." Unsatisfied, Joker tutted again.
> 
> “No, indulge me. I want you to tell me. Every detail. Every little thing you can think of." Bruce sharply inhaled, breath hitching. The consistent fear had resided over him persisted. 
> 
> "I’d be— I’d be hunted. I would cast a bad name on all heroes. I would— I would put you… in danger."
> 
> "There’s no _I_ in team, Bats." It was a joke that didn’t land. Joker wasn’t always perfect (not that he ever should be); he rarely made Bruce laugh unless they were in private. Yet, despite how corny and cruel it was, Bruce hummed with levity. All those around him (Alfred, Clark, Diana, and Gordon) treated him so carefully, afraid he might snap at them or break in two. Joker never treated him that way. It was a quality that shouldn’t be appealing. A bony hand rested against his shoulder, fingers firm. "You don't really care what any of them thinks... not anymore. You'd just lose me, dear. That’s what scares you, isn’t it?" Bruce entered a void in which all feelings and senses were alien. The hypernova could have hit them right there— destroying all life and all known forms of light and heat in the universe in one single stroke— and he would welcome it gladly, anything other than to accept what he was saying was true. 
> 
> _Anything, anything, anything—_
> 
> "Bruce, wake up." He wasn’t sleeping, but Joker didn’t think he was asleep. "You made me and you keep me. Never forget that." And Bruce supposed that was true. 
> 
> "I’m sorry," Bruce muttered quietly. The hand on his shoulder morphed into a tight hug from behind, entrapping Bruce’s arms into stillness. 
> 
> "Don’t be. What I had before… it doesn’t matter. Life is so much better this way." Selfishly, the affirmation pleased him. Bruce swallowed harshly, letting out the tiniest hum of discontent, but Joker persisted to his task of holding him. If anything, his grasp around his shoulders grew tighter. "When I fell into that acid, I was _reborn_ … with purpose. And now, I’m fulfilling that purpose." He released Bruce, encouraging him to turn with the urgency in his voice. "Let me do that. Tell me why you called me here." Somehow, at that moment, Bruce swore the chill became colder— the air denser. 
> 
> "I don’t want to tell you yet. It’s better if you don’t know."
> 
> "I don’t need to know anything, Bruce. I just need you."
> 
> Bruce didn’t tell him that night. He simply stared at the flickering jack-o-lantern illuminating the sidewalk, quieted his worried thoughts, and collapsed in Joker’s arms. The heat of his embrace and the distinct scent, as well as the city ambiance below and whipping wind, was just enough to pull focus from the inevitability. Clutching hard, Bruce inhaled deeply. Just beyond Joker’s shoulder, the stars glistened. 
> 
> _Damn it all to Hell._

* * *

"D-do you, Bruce Wayne, take Joe Kerr to— to be your wedded husband, to have and to— to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for r-richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to— to love and to cherish, 'til d-death do you part?" There’s no room for hesitation. 

"I do."

"And do you, Joe Kerr, take Bruce Wayne to— to be your wedded husband, to have— have and to hold from this day forward, for b-better, for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, 'til death do you p-part?" The gazebo is a small, ruined structure at the edge of the Gotham Bay, overlooking the city. Chipped white paint marks the floorboards beneath them. Joker’s smile is the kind of nightmares for anyone other than Bruce, evident from the nervousness of the kidnapped priest. Sweat glistens atop his forehead, his clammy hands holding a bible. His pasty face and receding hairline spawn a plethora of unhealthy images in Bruce’s mind. He has apprehended priests like this one before; men, who hide their deeds behind faith, never failed to cause corruption in Gotham. 

"I do," Joker answers. Shakily, the priest closes the Bible and swallows.

"Then, you may k-kiss the groom." Bruce leans forward and Joker reaches his arms over his shoulders.

A resounding shot in the darkness takes away from the moment. The priest falls ungracefully, blood gutting out and seeping through the black garb. Some of the blood hits Joker's dress, sprinkling it in unpleasant vermillion. He scoffs at the waste and parts from Bruce, searching for the culprit. Behind the priest, standing outside the gazebo and aiming her handgun, is Punchline. The bible’s pages soak up the priest's blood like tissue. All of his choking noises and pained movements reach up to Bruce; he places a hand against his boot in a desperate bid for help. Instinctively, Bruce leans down and reaches for supplies in his belt. Joker stops him before he can, putting.

"It’s useless. He’ll die anyway. We all will."

"Joker," Kaye calls. His head snaps to her voice, a wicked smile (but not nearly as genuine) spreads across his features. Her appearance is rugged, orange jumpsuit marking her an Arkham escapee. Her face is painted and her hair is longer than usual. The Bondi blue streak has faded into a gray imitation. "You’re a fucking _liar_." Laughter immediately erupts from Joker as Bruce slowly stands to his feet. The clutching hand around his boot loses its strength; the life leaves the priest’s eyes. He doesn’t bother checking his pulse. 

"Oh, dear Punchy! How are you? It’s been a while—"

"Cut the shit," she interrupts. Her eyes glare into Joker. Bruce looks to her tightened fists. She’s holding a dagger in one hand and a smoking gun in the other. Bruce methodically reaches to his belt in calculated motions, ensuring her attention remains on Joker. "You _lied_ to me." Chuckling, Joker lifts the white fabric of his dress as to not stain it further.

"Darling, you’re going to have to be more specific." Her face contorts, furious.

"I've seen you all over tv, parading around with the _enemy_. You said you wanted to cause chaos for chaos’ sake. You told me that Gotham would be up in flames… that everything would die in our wake." She pauses briefly, eyes flickering to Bruce. Then quietly, Kaye continues, "You told me the Bat would _die_." Without a beat, Joker steps over the priest and the puddle of blood. 

"Plans change, Punch. I know we had our fun, but the game is almost over. I wanted to spend my last moments with someone that matters—"

"No one matters," she spits. "You told me that, too." Tears brim in her eyes and slide down her cheeks, mascara streaking her painted face. Joker grimaces and shifts in disgust and disinterest.

"Don’t be so sad, dear. Not everyone gets the joke." A feral sound passes through Alexis Kaye; she charges forward, dagger raised, intending to stab. Bruce is quicker. He hurls his body over the gazebo and tackles her to the ground. The gun flings out of her grasp while the dagger pierces through his shoulder. He grunts in pain. She pulls it out and attempts to plunge it again. Bruce’s hand catches her wrist and twists it. A sharp crack and the clatter of metal against concrete let Bruce know the fight is over. Alexis yelps at the broken wrist and uses her other hand to punch. With ease, Bruce breaks her other wrist too. Rising to his feet with his injured shoulder, he picks up the knives one by one and throws them into the bay ahead. Behind him, Kaye huffs out harsh breaths. Joker skips over to her joyously, a simmering spout of laughter just on the horizon. He squats down, the fabric of the dress billowing outward, and crosses his arms at his knees. Too tired to stop it, Bruce only watches as Joker mocks her. "I really did like you, you know… it’s such a shame that you never understood your purpose."

"And what’s his?" she demands. Her tone is smug. It's as if she is the only one who understands the situation. "What’s his purpose in all of this? To be your _pet_?"

"Oh no, nothing like that. Sometimes he can act a little rabid, but that’s hardly something I have control over." He stands back up, head cocked at her with a darkened gaze. Joker shuffles over to the gun and picks it up gracefully. "No, his purpose is in creation— _my_ creation. In turn, Punchy, I am his and his alone. This is the natural order of things. I’m sorry you didn’t see the same picture." She spits at his feet, a peal of harrowing laughter filling Bruce’s ears. Grimacing, Joker fires two bullets; one hits her knee and the other enters her thigh. Her guttural cry echoes across the bay. Blood spills through her jumpsuit, coloring the orange an unsavory reddish brown. Alexis pants, whimpers, and writhes her body to face Joker directly. Gaze malicious and full of scorn, she chuckles through the waves of white-hot pain.

"You’re a _fraud_. You never wanted chaos for chaos’ sake. You just— you just wanted to play house with—"

"And you fell for it, just like the rest of Gotham," Joker cuts in. Kaye grows silent in a matter of seconds. He hums softly, taking in the smell of blood like a freshly cut rose. "It’s quite the punchline, isn’t it?" His escalating laughter outweighs the fact she is unable to remark. Joker’s words have hushed her to eternal soundlessness. Bruce limps toward him and together they part from the gazebo and away from Gotham Bay, leaving Punchline to lay on the cement alone. As their figures become mere spots, she turns her head away from them. Wrists aching and legs completely numb, she crunches her stomach to try and sit up. Ultimately, she stops and falls back against the cement. Her eyes search the sky then flutter down to the gazebo. Bitterly, she chuckles to herself as blood stains the cement beneath.

" _La gente paga, e rider vuole qua_ ," she sing-songs. " _E se Arlecchin t'invola Colombina, ridi, P-Pagliaccio... e ognun applaudirà_."

* * *

"You’ve outdone yourself, Bats!" Joker exclaims, twirling in awe. The cave glistens with dew from the tops of the ceiling. Bats hang above quietly, lurking— yet, every so often, their wings flap. Bruce glances at the bats, heart hammering in his chest. Somehow, it rings louder than the numbness of his wounded shoulder. He wants to speak— to cry out all of the things he’s wanted to tell Joker for God-knows-how-long— but finds his voice lost amongst the spiral of anxiety overcoming his mind and body. His cape settles over his shoulders, hiding his body in a swath of black. It’s the least he can do to hide his appearance for Joker. Like a kid in a candy store, the clown frolics around the cave. Every item and memorabilia he spots elicits a sharp response and a series of incoherent rambles. Over the giant penny, Joker points towards the hanging playing card. A crudely large card with a dancing jester in purple and green, Bruce has kept it hanging since long before Joker took the first steps in initiating intimacy. Joker doesn’t stop talking necessarily but Bruce does seem to catch onto what he is saying now. "Oh, I always wondered where that went! Why didn’t you tell me you had it all this time? I’ve been looking for it for years. They aren’t cheap, you know—"

"Joker," says Bruce. "We only have an hour left." Joker dismisses him quickly, waving a hand and scoffing.

"Calm down, Bats. We got time." Whatever inside of him that snaps, Bruce isn’t sure he could identify it. After all, he has spent the whole night doing pointless inane things to no alarm alongside Joker. But, in a split second, his body seizes with aimless rage. 

"No, we _don’t_." Joker turns at his tone. As per usual, he isn’t afraid of him. He's intrigued and genuinely interested— like a scientist to a specimen— by studying Bruce. Any other time, he would merely feel uncomfortable under such attention. Now, a mere sixty minutes before everything they know is erased, he is _livid_. "We don’t have control over anything. Our world is going to die and you’re standing here looking at—"

"Memories," Joker cuts in. Bruce is silent and unsure, trying desperately and pointlessly to compose himself. Joker is unconcerned with his own appearance, white dress trailing through the dirt and dust on the floor. His lipstick is smeared below his bottom lip and his mascara has proven itself _not_ waterproof. "Everything here is a memory. I just wish I could have all of yours for safekeeping. I bet they're juicy." The darkness from before has returned in full force; beyond all else, this truly scares Bruce. He pulls down his cowl with one hand, exposing the raw concern for open display— for mockery if Joker so chooses. The coo of a cold-blooded killer echoes like a whisper. His dimming eyes bead into Bruce’s, refusing to let go or relent. "I would cherish this memory too... if I could."

"Cherish the moment." Fingers reaching up to fiddle with his hair, Joker nods somberly.

"Let us do that, then."

* * *

"Did you mean it?" Bruce asks. Atop Wayne Manor, they can look up towards Gotham’s cityscape with ease. The wind whips more viciously than it did before. An orange glow emerges from the city as flames overtake a skyscraper. Smoke billows into the sky above, evaporating into the night sky. Inwardly, Bruce thinks he should be there, saving people. Instead, he is sitting next to Joker and dreading his answer. The irony ensnares him yet leaves him just as quickly. He simply doesn’t have the time for it. None one does.

"What do you mean, Batsy?"

"Halloween, you said your life was better because you fell into the acid. Is it true?" For a few brief moments, Joker’s gaze flickers to the ground below. Dark eyes trace the grass and stone of the grounds. From this high up, jumping would surely end in death. It’d be an unpleasant one but death nonetheless. Perhaps this was why Joker chose it. Bruce could only imagine the true (quite possibly absurd) reason why he did. But, in Joker’s own words, spoiling the joke would ruin the fun and he has no intention of doing that at all.

"Yes," Joker says wistfully. "The life I had before only comes in fuzzy pieces, but I remember how I felt distinctly. So aimless, so depressive, so _nothing_ … without you, I would have remained that way. Without your _divine_ intervention, darling, I would have remained no one." A cold feeling passes through Bruce at his words. He bites his lip and resists the urge to hug his knees. 

_I’ve made him… and I will let him die. That's what I've led us to. A monster leading a wolf into the bear trap._

"What? Finally a bat in your belfry?" Bruce releases his bottom lip and finds the strength to meet Joker’s gaze.

"Five years," he admits quietly. "I’ve— I’ve known this would happen… for five years. I thought... I thought that's what we both deserved." Joker isn’t mad or even remotely disappointed. He just seems curious and that’s the reaction Bruce should have expected from him. Mortality never meant much to either of them; if it had, their game would have ended many years ago. 

"Geez… and you kept that all locked up, didn’t you?" Bruce nods, avoiding his studious stare. Silence greets them and fills the uncomfortable space between words. Then, peals of laughter pelt Bruce unexpectedly. Joker is clutching at his stomach, tears brimming from the corners of his eyes, hunched over in a fit of insurmountable giggles. "Oh… oh, that’s _good_."

"What?" Joker waves him off but Bruce persists. "Tell me."

"You wanted to die with me… with _me_!" His laughter fills the noise in Bruce’s head, replacing it with shrieking and nasally tones (a remedy to his discomfort with _all_ of this). "That’s so— that’s so utterly, _hopelessly_ romantic for you, don’t you think?" There’s a twinkle to the darkness in Joker’s eyes again. It’s something he can’t quite capture as much as he’d like to. The darkness seems to fade along with it. Peace is re-instilled deep in Bruce's heart, even in the face of his burning city and his dying universe. He couldn’t be more at ease here, with Joker. It’s a strange quiet little thing that emerges from him, but Bruce is sure what it is: a chuckle.

"Well," he says. "I did put a ring on it, didn’t I?" Joker laughs even more, barely able to breathe, leaning backward off the edge of the Manor and falling flat on his butt. Bruce smiles, the gesture foreign to his muscle memory. Just then, as Joker predicted, flakes of snow begin to fall from above, uncommon for Gotham’s Octobers.

"What did I tell you?" He sticks out his tongue to catch the snow unsuccessfully, pouting when he catches none. After a few minutes of trying, he gives up and takes to humming the same song he has all night. Bruce never asks what it is, merely listening to the repeated rhythm. Somewhere along the next few minutes, he can feel Joker’s fingers nudge their way in between his own. The feeling of snow falling against his own face is refreshing. 

Beyond Wayne Manor, Gotham accommodates its people with the same snow. It doesn't put out the fires, but it briefly distracts the fury of rioters. Many stop to catch a flake or two. At a nearby chapel, with an audience of one, a couple say their vows and kiss away their worries. Near a gazebo by the bay, a clown sings to an empty crowd with no applause. Then, by the Gotham Police Department, a pumpkin with the same symbol as last year (once an act of courtesy) glows amongst the sea of other jack-o'-lanterns. The carver, a young boy, sits on the steps in front of his home and stares at the pumpkin. Inside, his mother sobs and his father smokes. Quietly, he remains on the concrete in the refreshingly hushed, unscented outside. Then, inexplicably, he stands up. His nimble hands reach for the stem and pull, revealing the candle lit within. He leans down, blows softly, and eventually the burning wick's tiny flame dissipates... never to be lit again.

**Author's Note:**

> Translation (from the opera _Pagliacci_ 's "Vesti la Giubba"): "The people pay and now they want to be amused." —> "And if Harlequin steals Columbina from you, laugh, Clown, and they'll all applaud!"
> 
> The song Joker hums throughout is not the same although is hinted at in the title; props to anyone who guesses it.
> 
> And, as always, thanks for reading and kudos!


End file.
